Lamb to the Slaughter

by Aline Templeton

  She looked, Tam thought, as if she would have liked to pull her arm away from him too, but she waited until he let it go with a final pat, then picked up her guitar.

  ‘I’m going to do my next song now. People are waiting, and I’m being paid for this.’

  Ossian, his face still crimson, shouldered his way to the door. As he passed Tam, he was on the point of bursting into tears. Tam grinned, unfeelingly. Humiliation was good for the gallus young, who thought that if you’d enough cheek you could have whatever you wanted. It was a small revenge for the roaring boys whose gallus days were, sadly, over.

  Johnny had stood his ground. ‘Just been chatting to Dylan,’ he said, and Tam saw Ellie’s face change.

  ‘What was he doing?’ Her anxiety was obvious.

  ‘Oh, not a lot. He and Barney and some of the other guys were just hanging out in the Square.’

  Ellie’s eyes were on his face. ‘They weren’t planning to do anything stupid, were they? There’s been complaints—’

  ‘No, no,’ he said soothingly. ‘They’re good lads. They’re young – it was just a bit of fun anyway – hysterical old bat—’

  ‘She’s not—’ Ellie began, then, seeing the landlord looking pointedly at her, said, ‘I’ve got to do my next song.’

  ‘Fine.’ He turned to move away. ‘We can chat later. See you after.’

  He took up his position by the bar, a little distance away, and she launched into ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’, a little hesitantly.

  Tam had a clear view of him now; short, curly dark hair, dark eyes, designer stubble and a face that gave no clue as to what he was thinking. And he’d seen him before – not in a professional context, just seen him before. But where was it? There was nothing wrong with Tam’s powers of observation, but his retrieval system wasn’t as good as it used to be.

  He was worrying away at it when a hand grasped his shoulder.

  ‘Come on, Tam, stop brooding, man! If you think you can put the blame on being injured because you can’t hit the side of a bus, think again. You’re out of practice, that’s all, you idle bugger. And if you’re sitting there indulging an old man’s fantasies about Ellie, I’ll clype on you to Bunty, and she’ll show you what a sore head’s really like. Rejoin the human race, and I’ll even buy you a drink.’

  ‘I know you, you crafty sod,’ Tam said as he got up. ‘We’ll reach the bar, and then it’ll be “You pay and I’ll fumble.”’

  As he followed his friend to the bar, the memory came back: that was Johnny Black, who’d come to Kirkluce fairly recently to work in a motorbike business. Tam had even gone in himself once, to lust after a Harley Davidson that was on display. Only the ‘mid-life crisis’ mockery that he’d get from colleagues, and the thought of Bunty’s anxiety which would be bravely but inadequately concealed, had stopped him falling for the illusion that youth was something you could buy with money.

  Greatly cheered, he accepted a dram. Maybe his hand–eye coordination really would improve with practice, and it gave him a good excuse for a few more evenings at the Cutty Sark.

  It was the dog that heard them first. It was an elegant creature, a honey-coloured greyhound with a coat soft as cashmere and eyes outlined in black like Cleopatra’s. It stiffened and sat up from the rug where it had been lying at Christina Munro’s feet, a low growl rumbling in its throat.

  The old woman’s stomach lurched. She had been listening to the radio; she turned down the volume, and now she could hear it too – the distant whine of motorbike engines. The black and white cat which had been purring in her lap jumped down, affronted by her sudden movement, and glared round, tail twitching. A tortoiseshell in a basket beside the kitchen stove raised its head lazily, while another cat, asleep on a cushioned chair, opened one eye.

  Christina’s eyes went nervously to the door, though she knew she had locked and bolted it when she came in. She had secured the shutters then too, blotting out what was left of the daylight, so for some while the kitchen, where she spent most of her time now, had been in darkness, apart from the lamp by her chair. She had to fight the temptation to switch it off and pretend there was no one in; it might feel safer, but who knew what they might do if they felt there was no one to witness their actions?

  Anyway, she told herself, it was only noise and a bit of minor damage. They’d broken some old flower-pots and churned up her vegetable patch, but she didn’t think they’d actually harm her. At least, she had to hope they wouldn’t. The police seemed to know who they were, and they’d had a word, they told her, with the parents and with the boys themselves, so that should put a stop to it. Christina knew it wasn’t polite when she laughed in their faces.

  The bikes were roaring up the farm track now. The noise was deafening, and led by the tortoiseshell, the cats, one after another, shot under the dresser. The greyhound, shivering, came to press itself against her side and she stroked its velvety ears soothingly, though she suspected that all she was doing was communicating her own fear. Her heart was banging in her narrow chest.

  Now they were in the yard. Through the chinks in the shutters she could see their headlights flickering as they began their usual roaring circuits of the farmhouse and the yard. Even above the engine noise Christina could hear their whoops and hollering.

  Wearily, she reached for the phone and dialled 999. She gave her message, admitted that no one was hurt and that as far as she knew no particular harm was being done, and received the bland assurance that someone would attend as soon as available.

  She heard a crash, somewhere at the back of the farmhouse. What had they found to damage now? Or had someone come to grief? She was always afraid that one of the speeding bikes would lose its grip on the rounded cobbles of the backyard, and she feared their fury if one of them got hurt.

  Apparently not. They were coming towards the front again, stopping just outside her door, talking and laughing.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! She leaped to her feet in fright and the dog, startled, began to bark – high, terrified yaps. They were bashing at all three windows round the kitchen. They’d never done that before, and though with the sturdy shutters bolted in place she didn’t think they could break in even if they broke the glass, it told her that their attacks were getting bolder. They were shouting now too, taunts, threats, obscenities, challenging her to ‘come out and give us a laugh’.

  Opening the door, confronting them, getting it over with was a real temptation. The police knew about them so they wouldn’t actually harm her, would they, and maybe once they’d got what they wanted, abused her to her face, seen her alarm, they’d lose interest and leave it at that.

  But bullies didn’t. Bullies who got their way went on and on, getting worse and worse, high on the excitement of their cruelty. And if ever she came out, it would be more dangerous not to, the next time.

  There was no point in telling them she’d called the police. She wasn’t sure she could shout loudly enough to make herself heard, and anyway these thugs knew as well as she did that the polis wouldn’t appear till long after they’d made their escape. She’d only make a fool of herself if she tried.

  Her legs were giving way. She collapsed back into her chair and the dog came to lay its head on her knee, the pleading eyes begging for protection.

  And at last, the banging stopped. The bikes drove off and the engine noise dwindled away into the distance. The room was suddenly very, very quiet, the only sound the muted voices from the radio. Shakily Christina got up, and with the dog closer than a shadow at her side she went to draw back the bolts and open the door.

  Outside it was quite dark now. Over the low, rolling hills which rose beyond her land the moon had come up, a waning half-moon, and in the starry sky darker clouds were drifting across. There had been a heavy shower earlier and she could still smell rain on the rising wind, though for the moment at least it had gone off. In the old barn she could hear the three donkeys moving restlessly but the steel bar with its sturdy padlock was still in place across the d
ouble doors. The grass in front of the house was badly churned up, but she could live with that. It had never been what you could call a lawn anyway.

  When she went round to the back, the yard was awash where they had overturned the rain-butt, which explained the crash. With some difficulty she got it set up and back in its place, then continued her round of inspection. No broken windows, no other damage that she could see.

  She’d got off lightly – this time, at least.

  The rain started again, whispering through the leaves of the old mulberry tree in the middle of the gravel turning-circle in front of Fauldburn House. The black front door was standing open and Andrew Carmichael lay on the doorstep, his eyes wide open and sightless, with a gaping hole blown in his chest.

  3

  Norman Gloag sliced a careful triangle off his fried potato scone, speared it along with a piece of bacon, dipped the forkful into the yolk of his fried egg and conveyed it to his mouth.

  Sunday breakfast was his favourite meal. On Sundays he always insisted they ate in the dining-room of their modern villa – ‘the ultimate in distinctive living’ – instead of the family room off the luxury kitchen, ‘boasting integrated appliances’. As pater familias he enjoyed presiding over the only meals the family ate together, when he could instil what he called ‘proper values’ over the inadequate meals his wife unenthusiastically provided.

  A fry-up was the high point of her culinary activities, but in the frigid atmosphere this morning he found himself ­chewing and swallowing without pleasure.

  His wife Maureen, at the other end of the black glass and chrome table, was still in her dressing-gown, a slovenly habit, as he had told her often enough, and it wasn’t as if the dressing-­gown was even particularly clean, marked as it was with old coffee stains that hadn’t quite washed out. She was engrossed in the medical page of the Sunday Post.

  His daughters, eleven-year-old Cara and Denise, sixteen going on thirty, were respectively eating Chocolate Krispies and drinking a virulently pink slimming milk shake. Where his son Gordon should have been, a cream upholstered dining-chair stood empty. Its emptiness seemed mocking, and Gloag could feel himself starting to lose his temper.

  He was scowling as he addressed Denise. ‘Ask your mother where Gordon is.’

  Denise, leafing through the magazine section of the Sunday Mail, paid no attention.

  Maureen, a small, wiry woman with the sort of neat features which, while pretty enough in youth, sharpen unbecomingly in dissatisfied middle age, took a cigarette from the packet that lay on the table, lit it, and took a drag before she said, ‘Tell your father he’s in bed.’

  Gloag addressed the table at large, his face red with anger. ‘Oh, he is, is he? Well, he needn’t think, if he chooses to come home at one in the morning, that he can make up for it by lying in bed all day. Denise, go and waken your brother.’

  Denise raised her eyes only to roll them, and went back to her magazine.

  ‘I’ll go, Dad,’ Cara piped up eagerly. ‘I’ll tell him you’re mad at him and he’s to get up now.’

  Gloag looked with approval at his youngest. She was the one most like him in appearance, a sturdy, round-faced child who so far at least seemed to have escaped the attitude of insolent indifference which had been fostered in her siblings by their mother’s attitude.

  As Cara left the room, Maureen looked up from her newspaper and said, ‘Tell your father he’s a bloody idiot. That’s bound to cause trouble.’

  Gloag glared at his wife. ‘Tell your mother that if she didn’t encourage Gordon to behave badly—’

  With a sudden movement Denise pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘You two are pathetic. Tragic, really. Stop trying to use me in your stupid games. I’m going to my room, so you’ll have to shut it, won’t you? Or behave like adults – as if!’

  As her daughter stormed off, Maureen too stood up, stubbed out the cigarette and walked out. Gloag heard her go to the kitchen and shut the door; then there was the sound of Cara hurrying down the stairs.

  ‘He called me a fat pig!’ she said as she opened the door. ‘And he used the f-word.’ She gave a few token sobs, but as she went on, ‘And he won’t get up. He just turned over and went back to sleep. I told him he’s in B-I-G trouble,’ satisfaction banished any tears.

  Gloag felt suddenly very tired. It had been, as Maureen had not hesitated to point out, a bad decision, one that was going to cost him. ‘That’s all right, Cara,’ he said heavily. ‘Now, why don’t you clear the rest of the table and take it through to the kitchen, like a good girl.’

  Cara pouted. ‘I haven’t finished my breakfast.’ She sat down again, helped herself to a piece of toast and spread it lavishly with Nutella.

  Her father looked down at his own congealing plateful without appetite. It was all Maureen’s fault, of course. Women nowadays believed that because they went out to work it gave them the right to spend their earnings in any way they chose, even when it should involve a family decision. And he’d made it quite plain what this decision was: no motorbike. The two youths in Kirkluce who had them already weren’t the types that Norman Gloag’s son should be associating with, and Maureen’s deciding to buy one for Gordon, in full knowledge of her husband’s opposition, had been an act of pure spite.

  Even by their standards the row which had followed a humiliating visit from the police had been on an epic scale. They hadn’t spoken since, and Gloag’s attempt to assert his paternal authority by confiscating the bike had failed. His son had the nerve to tell him that since his mother had paid for it, it was up to her.

  Last night, Gordon had ignored the rule that he was to be back by midnight, and this morning, in the grip of temper, his father had put himself in a position where his bluff could be called. Where was he to go from here? He could hardly go upstairs and eject him physically from his bed. Gordon was bigger than he was now.

  Cara had at last finished and under protest (‘Why shouldn’t Denise do it?’) began to clear the table. Gloomily, Gloag collected up his own plate, cup and saucer and handed them to her.

  But, he told himself, he wouldn’t have to put up with it for ever. He had had enough of Maureen’s sluttish habits and her constant undermining of his authority with his ­children. He’d even caught her laughing with them behind his back the other day – that came close to being the last straw. He’d have gone for a divorce years ago, but he’d no doubt she’d fight like a cat to get every penny off him that she could, and he’d no fancy for living in penury.

  But all being well – and all did seem to be going well, after all – he reckoned he’d done enough to ensure that the superstore deal would go ahead. Then there would be money, a lot of money, coming his way, money which meant he could readily afford to buy his freedom. The words ‘irretrievable breakdown of marriage’ had begun to sound very appealing.

  As she came into the Kirkluce headquarters of the Galloway Constabulary at half-past nine on Sunday morning, Marjory Fleming was pleased to see that the officer on duty at the desk was Sergeant Jock Naismith. A bulky, good-natured man, he’d been her sarge when she joined the force as a probationer, more years ago than she cared to remember, and no one knew more about what went on in this patch than he did.

  There was no one in the waiting area. ‘Quiet night, sarge?’ Fleming asked hopefully.

  Naismith, glad of some distraction, leaned forward on his elbows. ‘Not bad. Road accident, couple of people hurt, but nothing that won’t mend, from the sound of it. The usual drunk and disorderlies but we’ve no one for free bed and breakfast.’

  ‘That’s what I like to hear.’ She hesitated. ‘Jock – a strictly personal enquiry. Do you know anything about two boys called Barney Kyle and Dylan Burnett? The only background I have is that they’ve got motorbikes and they’re at Kirkluce Academy.’

  ‘Ah! Funny you should ask that.’

  Fleming’s heart sank. ‘Got form, have they?’

  ‘Not exactly. There’s a wifie with that farm just out
of the town on the Newton Stewart road that’s been having problems with them. She phoned in last night again, seemingly – 999 call – but when we could send a car they’d scarpered, of course, and all she’d to show for it was a water-butt they’d turned over. They seem just to have been buzzing round the house, winding her up. Young limbs of Satan, I’ve no doubt, but we’ve only her word without much in the way of corroboration, so there’s not a lot we can do. A couple of the lads went round last time to speak to the parents, but it obviously didn’t do much good.’

  Norman Gloag’s son, it appeared, was involved as well. Fleming knew Councillor Gloag – who didn’t, when he made it his business to feature in every edition of the Galloway Globe? – but she didn’t know the two women from the Craft Centre.

  ‘Fathers?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t know about Burnett. Kyle’s mother has a toy boy with a record for fraud.’

  Fleming groaned. ‘They don’t sound exactly the chums you’d choose for your fourteen-year-old daughter, do they?’

  ‘Fourteen – Cat?’ Naismith was startled. ‘Dearie me – I mind when you were on maternity leave and came in to show her off. Bawled the place down, and you were that embarrassed!’

  ‘Let’s just hope she’s not planning to embarrass me all over again,’ her mother said darkly. ‘Thanks anyway, Jock.

  ‘So – looks like a quiet enough day, then, does it? I’ve a bit of paper to shift, but I’m hoping to get away home for my Sunday lunch.’

  Naismith shook his head. ‘Lassie, have you learned nothing at all, all these years? You’re tempting fate with a remark like yon.’

  Laughing, she left him and headed for the stairs.

  It was almost midday when Dylan Burnett, bleary-eyed and still wearing his night attire of grey T-shirt and boxers, came into the kitchen/living-room of the flat above Ellie’s shop. His long hair, fair anyway and bleached blonder still, was tousled from sleep.